The Black Queen Vignettes
by IReen H
Summary: October 2012 Fictionista Workshop. Daily prompts. Low expectations only, please.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Hey Guys. So I'm doing the October witfit. I think it's going to be a series of vignettes based on a story I've had buzzing in the brain for a while. But it's mostly exercises. I'm going to be playing with tense and 3rd POV, in addition to writing styles. Please don't expect much, if you're here reading. Except chaos. You can expect chaos, for sure. Unbeta'd and roughly written. _

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Scarf

**Dialogue Flex**: "Do you need a ride home?" he asked.

* * *

The alley is a dark dead-end corridor made of three greasy walls, host to human detritus; collapsed coffee cups collecting swampy rain water, wilted newspapers shredding into unreadable scrap, rats skittering behind rusty dumpsters overflowing old pizza boxes, egg shells, and the heels of perfectly good bread, protected from the elements in their plastic bags.

Perfectly good, when you're starving.

As he is.

Small for his age, resembling the environment in which he lives – greasy, dark with dirt, rusty hair spilling out of a worn baseball cap, too big for him. Masen pulls a recently deposited garbage bag from the pile by the dumpster and fumbles at the tie with shaking fingers.

So hungry.

Squatting low to the ground, he rummages with blackened fingers, scarfing down anything edible. The top of a carrot, an inch of browned banana still in its peel, crusted rice clinging to the inside of a carry-out carton, white with red Chinese characters on the side.

At first he hated having to eat garbage. Now he's just thankful that the people in this neighborhood are so wasteful. Old food, new to the rot, still highly preferable to newspaper – which doesn't satisfy. Not ever.

The sound of tire-tread revolving through a puddle at the mouth of the alley has him ducking back behind a tumble of boxes, peeking around at the slick black sedan with tinted windows. One comes rolling smoothly down, freeing the soft chimes of Chopin which plays inside the car.

Masen knows who Chopin is, a few years ago you could even find him playing it, seated aristocratically at the piano bench, his mother floating about the room, her ear perked to catch any little mistake he might make.

"Again, Masen. Start over. You missed the timing there. Remember to pause, this isn't a race."

And he would. From the beginning.

"Follow your breath, Mays. Find your rhythm."

Had it been Bach, he might not have allowed himself to be seen. But it's Chopin and he hasn't heard the Nocturne since his mother died. Since the sun punished him on the day of her funeral with its over-bright cheer. Music like this deserves the rain, deserves the alley and the rot. The filth and fester.

"Child. You there." Aro calls to the boy. Could those feral green eyes, shadow-cast and hooded, really be those of Lizzy's son?

It's the accent that keeps Masen glued in place instead of running. Perfect English, with a touch of the Latin rounding the vowels and plucking the consonants. His mother's accent, old unused Italian touching all her words.

"Can I give you a ride? Home, maybe?" Aro well knows that the alley he currently looks upon IS the boys home. Still, he pretends not to notice the layers of grime coating the freckled face, the hooded sweatshirt – size 3X if not more, the nimble fingers, nails crusted black.

"Back to the T-House? I don't think so."

"You'd rather stay here, in this wretched place?"

"Better here than there."

"Get in the car, Masen." Aro takes a chance, albeit a slim one. The boy is just too like his mother. His query is rewarded when the boy, lips cracking, answers him.

"How do you know my name?"

Masen is too young for the full story behind that question, in fact, he may never be old enough. No one likes to learn that their mother was a whore. No matter how high-class and well-bred she may have been. No matter that she used her beautiful body, and cunning mind in high-stakes games, ensuring Aro always gained the upper hand. Or whatever else he may have been after. No. You don't tell that kind of story to a fourteen year old boy.

Especially not one you want to groom to your purpose, as Aro wants to do, with Masen.

Better to lie. But only barely.

"I knew Elizabeth. I knew your mother."

Masen doesn't move.

That's right, Aro thinks. Don't trust me. Don't trust anyone. Never trust anyone.

Masen doesn't trust him. But something hollow and desperate inside his weary limbs, definitely, and distinctly, trusts the music. His mother's music.

What's the worst thing that can happen to him? What is worse than this?

The T-House. State funded with flimsy hiring policies, hiring caretakers that insist they need to be present in the bathroom while Masen showered. The house full of their cigarette smoke and worse. Other boys, always bigger than Masen. Always pressing the advantage of their size to gain more than their share of food, trying to manipulate the group around them, using their fists to further the imbalance.

He doesn't have to fight anyone here. The food may be vile, but it's all his. He may clean himself in the runoff from the rooftops, but no one offers to scrub the places he can't quite reach.

"Why? Where do we go, if I get in your car?"

"What if I told you I have a job for you, Masen? You can make your own money. Good money. Keep your own space, make your own rules. Provided they don't conflict with mine."

Aro sees the hungry gleam take the boys eyes. He wants exactly what is being offered.

"What are your rules?"

"Get in my car and I'll tell you."

"What if I don't like your rules?"

"Then I can drop you off, anywhere you choose... and you can go back to fighting the rats for your breakfast."

Masen makes his decision, and Aro has his driver lay down a sheet to protect the sleek cream interior of the vehicle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Jumping around - writing for different characters based on the prompts... nonlinear, non-cohesive. Unbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Stigma

**Plot Generator—Idea Completion**: A leap of faith.

* * *

"Isabella Marie Swan."

The crowd broke into applause, again, for seemingly the hundredth time that morning, as she got up from her chair, tucked her curls behind her ears, and climbed the steps to stand in front of half the town.

In the deep blue of her gown, her head held high, her smile faintly smug – she accepted her diploma. The principal pressed her hand and congratulated her warmly.

"You did it, Bella. I know it was hard."

It _was_ hard.

…

High schools are like small towns. Small town high schools are like petri-dishes full of colliding particles. The membrane that protects your business, keeps it yours, just doesn't exist.

_Oh my God, did you hear?_

_No! What?_

_I heard that Isabella Swan got knocked up by that guy… you know, from the rez. The one she went to homecoming with. _

_No way!_

At first it was just hushed whispering. Then, when she didn't begin to show within the week, talk turned to how she must have aborted the kid at some grimy big-city clinic. The hushed whispers turned to disdained stares as the tight-nit teen community openly shunned her.

Then she began to show.

But the disdain continued.

She sat in her classes, staring straight forward, watching the teachers, taking her notes. Trying not to think about what her swelling belly meant to those around her. She would occasionally ponder the looks she got from boys suggesting they missed the slut-boat.

Similar expressions twisted the faces of girls who fancied themselves better than Isabella because they had the good sense to go on the pill.

She'd gotten used to it.

She was in the empty computer lab, her T.A. period, when Victoria Spencer peered through the window in the door, opened it, shucked her backpack, snapped her gum and said, "Hey, Preggo."

Bella looked up from the screen, raising one eyebrow, a skill she was secretly proud of.

Victoria rode to school on a long-board. She battled school administration over the "distracting and unnatural" color of her hair, the two studs and a loop in one delicate nostril, her habit of smoking on campus behind shop-class and her tendency to ditch P.E.

She liked to flip Mr. Banner the bird behind his back.

"You live over by the divide, yeah?"

Bella nodded.

"Can you give me a ride? It's fucking pouring out there."

Twenty minutes later Bella was unlocking the passenger side of her pick-up while Victoria stood waiting, the rain running her dark make-up, her eyes bloodshot against the smear of mascara.

Or maybe she was stoned. She often was.

"So. Is it a boy or a girl? Do you know?"

Bella cranked the heat all the way up and answered over the blare of the vents.

"Boy."

"Rad. Are you having a baby shower?"

Bella laughed. "No."

But she did have a shower. Victoria gave her one. The day before graduation Victoria dragged her to Chuck-e-Cheese, told her she had to get used to places like these, and dumped a mountain of tokens on the bright yellow plastic table.

"Just don't eat the food. The pizza here is toxic waste." She bent and spoke directly to Bella's belly-button. "You hear that? Jay-bay?" Then she rubbed Bella's tummy and inundated her with onesies, swaddling blankets, a pacifier and a big box of newborn diapers.

"It's not much. But it'll get him home from the hospital." She paused. "Except. You need a car-seat. Do you have one of those?"

"Yeah. Jake bought two, actually. So we'll have one in both cars. That way we won't have to move it around all the time."

Victoria smiled. "Good man. Let's play skee-ball."

…

No one clapped louder than Jacob Black, standing at the back of the crowd, his baseball cap smudged with motor oil and sweat.

He wasn't graduating that day. And he didn't care. He had a good job at the Forrester Garage, an apartment lined up near the J.C. and a small iridescent ruby set in white gold, tucked in a velvet box in his pocket.

His dark eyes followed Bella as she accepted her diploma, turned, found him and gave him a tiny wave. He gave her the big smile he shared easily, and then put his hand over his heart and pointed at her, mouthing, "You."

Over the heads of the community gathered below in metal seats, she repeated the gesture.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Jumping around - writing for different characters based on the prompts... nonlinear, non-cohesive. Unbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompts**: Apologize, memorize, terrorize

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

* * *

"So, it's to be Petrov's Defense again, this morning?"

Masen doesn't respond, his eyes flicking up to Aro's as he releases his knight.

"Shall we try the Boden-Kieseritzky Gambit?" His manicured nail presses the board next to Masen's bishop, one brow lifted in question.

"King's bishop to C4."

"Correct."

Masen moves his piece and Aro smiles, "I accept."

He takes the pawn and places it to the side of the board. Play proceeds, Masen studious, each move earnest. Each instruction from the master gentle, persistent. Masen's hair bobs atop his head when he nods, soft yet wild, an overgrown high-and-tight turned cocks-comb.

His freckles are fading.

There's new shadow over his upper lip.

Aro watches him glower openly at the board, his face too revealing of his frustration. When the boy's clawed fingers come up to dig into his hairline, Aro clucks, reaching for his sleeve and tugging his hand from his face.

"Don't ever let anyone see your feelings, Edward. I can read you like a book right now. That's unacceptable. There's a way out of this. Find it."

Masen turns his attention from the board, to the over-kind condescension of his mentor. "I don't like that name. I told you."

"I'm sorry you don't like it. I still require you to answer to it."

"My name is Masen. My mother named me."

"I know that. And you know that. You must respond to a pseudonym. As if, Masen, as if - it were your _real_ name. Besides, Edward is a very distinguished name." Aro spreads his hands in an explanatory fashion, palms up, open.

"I don't like it."

The man tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips, eyebrows coming together in the middle, suggesting that there are many things in life we don't like. But we have to do them anyway.

Because rules are rules.

Masen hides his scowl and looks back to the board.

…

"_Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom._ First in Italian, Edward."

Masen's fingers fumble for the catch button, find it and he pulls the magazine from the M4. "In public?"

"Fine, fine."

"Mi scusi, dov'è sono i gabinetti?"

"Very good. Now - in French."

"Excusez-moi, Où sont les toilettes?"

"You've quite the Italian inflection, but you need to soften your speech for French." He holds up an index finger. A point to make note of. "Remember, Italy is passion, France is poetry, Edward."

Masen lets his gaze run to the receiver, checking for ammunition before throwing the bolt catch. "I remember. Persian is emphatic, and Spanish is empathetic. I'm not going to have to shoot anybody – am I?"

He runs chapped fingers through his hair, finally giving voice to the quiet nag inside him, berating him - this day, and every day that Aro has sat him down with a gun.

Aro lays his book to the side and steeples his hands, fingers pointed down to the reflective surface of the wide stainless steel table.

"What are we learning, Edward, hmmm?"

"To influence. Affect, avenge. To disappear. To punish. Survive." Masen recites the memorized line with his eyes on Aro's hands before looking up. "But I don't know why."

"Theirs is not to reason why. Theirs but to do… and die."

He points a brow at the boy.

Masen knows the poem but can't recall the author. He guesses his mother's favorite. "Kipling?"

"No, my boy. Start it from the beginning, The Charge of the Light Brigade. _Tennyson_." He chastises the bowed head –darkening from blaze to bronze– over the black metal of the weapon.

"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…"

Masen's memory falters in the fourth verse, he repeats a line a few times before looking to Aro with helpless eyes. "I've forgotten."

Turning to the bookshelves lining the room, Aro finds the thick volume, bound in vermillion and gold, and hands it to the boy.

"Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind._ That_, Edward, is Kipling."

…

"I cant… I can't…"

Masen is bent double, his hands grasping at his knees, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath. He looks up, the blaring blush of his cheeks hiding every last freckle.

"I can't… run anymore."

The day is cool but muggy. The air he sucks into his lungs is choked with vapor from the narrow slow-moving creek that burbles next to the foggy path. The leaves over their heads never reached the brilliant copper and golden hues of fall, not this year. They litter the path in clusters of pathetic and sickly yellow, crunched to dust under the stomp of his sneakers.

Aro toes down the dirt-bike's kickstand and dismounts, leaning to meet Masen's glossy gaze.

"What is required of us when we can no longer run?"

"Fight… Or… Hide."

"There's a third option."

Masen sucks in a shaky lungful of air, watching the older man, wary of the twinkle deep in his plated glass eyes. There has never been a third option before.

"How far do you think you are from your cabin, Edward?"

He drags his hand over his brow and gauges the distance to the outbuilding where he lives. "Half a mile, maybe? Not far."

"Indeed." Aro pulls a remote control from his saddle bag. Masen knows what it is, it controls the dogs. "Make it there before Anubis and Osiris get to you, and you can take the rest of the day off."

Masen swallows. "This is the 3rd option?"

"Sometimes, Edward. You can't stop running." He shrugs delicately. "Adrenalin helps. Terror helps. If you have to stun them, then we do this again tomorrow."

He hands Masen the remote and presses the button on the walkie-talkie. "Copy, Alec?"

"Sir?"

"Release the dogs."

"Copy that."

Aro waves the walkie-talkie at the boy, dismissing him, but Masen is already moving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Jumping around - writing for different characters based on the prompts... nonlinear, non-cohesive. Unbeta'd and roughly written. _

_ALSO - Yes, this will eventually be a B/E story. Sorry you have to put up with Jake for the time being. I appreciate your reading!_

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Liquid

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Musical Mastery:** "Live While We're Young" by One Direction.

* * *

Bella squeezed the hips of the jeans between her fingers, found something unyielding and fished a hex key out of the front pocket before chucking them into the washing machine. Socks and boxers followed, along with the deep navy uniform with the white name-patch. That came–sopping and heavy–out of a bucket where it had been soaking in Simple Green.

She dumped in a double cap-full of soap and closed the machine just as she heard the front door.

"Yo?"

"In here."

Victoria rounded the corner into the laundry nook and threw up her palm for Bella to slap it. She did so with a small smile and said, "'Sup?"

"I have attained my majority." Victoria cartoonishly tugged at the lapels of her leather coat, giving Bella a face of faux superiority.

"I know. I was there, remember? _West coast represent, now put your hands up!"_

"Ugh. I'm never drinking again."

"Mmhmm."

"Anyway that's not what I meant. I meant trust-fund, baby! I'm liquid and loving it! Where's Sam?"

"Crib."

"Can I wake him up?"

"I think he's already awake, I heard him gurbling in there."

"Rad."

Victoria turned on the heels of her boots and left a fragrant sandalwood trail from the nook to the small gold and brown room that was Sam's.

Sam lay in his crib, his fists clamped together as he looked up at the mobile with dark intelligent eyes. He didn't know it, but the shape he contemplated was Saturn. That was until Victoria peeked her eyeballs over the edge of the crib. He goo-ed at her and gave her a gummy smile. She goo-ed back. Her smile was dazzling, happy, bright white against her rosy cheeks, brisk from the November wind blowing outside.

He kicked and she reached for him. He put his hands on the sparkly things in her face, and she made kissy lips against his soft baby skin.

"Hey Samster. Let's bundle you up and go for a ride. Would you like that?"

"Where are we going?" Sam turned towards his mother's voice and kicked both legs, excited.

"I want to show you something."

…

What Victoria wanted to show Bella was the wreck of a dilapidated restaurant. A corner-location dump, complete with fire and water damage. Smoke had blackened the interior, water had warped the floors, there were broken mirrors, cracked drywall, exposed wiring, all decorated in three-tone graffiti.

She guided Bella through the place, telling her she was going to buy it and turn it into a nightclub. She would name it Port Vic, for Victory, of course. There would be a stage and an abundance of good music.

"Not that shit they play now-a-days mind you. I'm talking classics, Bella. Jazz and Swing and Depeche Mode," she spoke around an unlit cigarette.

She never lit up around Sam, but the Camel was ever-present, tucked behind an ear, dangling from her lips, or being waved around between her fingers.

"One of these things is not like the other, Vic."

"Whatever. I own it, I can do what I want."

She would too–do whatever she wanted. She was wearing an aviator cap and goggles.

"I have all this money," she said, her determined eyes fiery. "And I'm not using it to go to school. Fuck that."

Bella didn't try to dissuade her.

It took Victoria a few months to get the deal to come together. She was young, inexperienced, and her brashness did not keep people from wanting to take her for a ride. Bella, steady and sharp, backed her up in all things. When Victoria was ready to storm out of her brokers office, Bella held her still, asking the questions that needed to be answered. When the closing statement came back with weird charges that hadn't previously been discussed, Victoria said "Fuck it – I will just pay them so we can close this goddamn thing." Bella said, "No way. That's a quarter of a percent, Vic. And your money isn't bottomless" She made them redraw.

Quietly persistent, her astute eyes missed nothing.

Sam went with them everywhere, in his stroller, in his sling. Awake or asleep. Laughing or complaining in his nonsensical baby babble.

When they gutted the place he stayed with Leah. When they laid new floors he was with his dad.

Port Vic opened on his 1st birthday. He was there for that.

…

"Hey, beautiful."

"Hey." Bella slid between the sheets–freshly showered, hair still dripping–and found the heat of her husband and curled into it. He pushed her damp hair over her shoulder, kissed her neck, enjoyed her closeness.

"How was work?"

"Kinda slow."

"That's Wednesday for you."

"Yeah. Made some good tips though. And Vic booked a band for Saturday so we can finally advertise live music_. _How about you?"

"Same, same. You missed it, Sam said banana tonight. Well, he said 'nah-nab' but I knew what he meant."

Bella laughed, delicate and light, against his tawny chest. "I can't believe I missed it."

"I got it on my phone. Want to see?"

She kicked back the covers and Jake sat up, reaching to the table by the bed, turning the phone on, illuminating their faces with a cold gray glow. The light warmed to a vibrant gold when he pressed play. Bella watched Sam, fingers pawing his high chair tray for small wedges of banana.

_Can you say 'banana,' Sammy? Say 'banana' for daddy._

"He's gonna cough a little here, but it's okay."

Yellow mush squished from Sam's mouth as he laughed.

Then choked.

Her hand came up to her heart. Sam was fine, she could tell from his cough that his breath was under the blockage. His eyes watered a bit, but then he smiled, chewing the mush and swallowing it.

Bella's eyes didn't leave her son, she felt Jake's big smile next to her. He watched her face.

_Nah-nab. _

Recorded Jake laughed. _Close enough, big guy._

She turned to him, and he felt buoyant.

"Lets watch it again?"

They did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: I'm a little under the gun today so this one is short, poorly researched, and a little silly. But fun I hope. Unbeta'd and roughly written._

_P.S. I know absolutely ZERO about drifting. So - yeah. _

* * *

**Word Prompt:** Liar

**Dialogue Flex:** "It's been a while," she said.

* * *

"You want to fuck first?"

"Not particularly."

"Liar."

Masen shrugs. "Get in the car."

The blacktop of the track is shrouded in the low-hanging predawn mist, the moisture visible and dancing in the thick glare thrown down by the lights. Heidi doubles over and shakes out her rich platinum hair before sliding into the passenger seat of the RX-7. She dons a pair of sunglasses despite the night and turns to him.

"Fire it up."

He twists the key and the engine hums to life, the tires squeal and spit smoke as the car shoots forward, plastering them both against their seatbacks. He takes the car around the track a few times at high speed. Heidi rotates to face him, leaning in, laying a hand on his knee.

"Good. Slow 'er down and let 'er drift."

Masen pops the clutch, pulls the brake and caresses the gas.

"You're losing it. Kick the clutch." Her hand slides up his leg. "Just feel the car."

His response is casual. "Stop distracting me."

"It's my job, love."

So it is.

How to drive, how to charm, how to get a woman off. Heidi teaches these things.

His eyes, darkly green, slide to their corners to examine her. Cupids bow mouth, a Marilyn mole hovering nearby, if he pushed her glasses up, he knows he'd find dark sooty lashes and deep velvety brown eyes. He moves his hand from the stick and starts slipping free the buttons on her starched white blouse. She isn't wearing a bra.

"Nice, Edward. It's been awhile… so it shouldn't take you long."

It doesn't.

Left hand on the wheel, at times assisted by his right knee when he needs to cross over and shift, he plucks her nipples before tugging her skirt up.

His dexterous fingers following her instruction, he doesn't get fancy. He takes the turns with the air caught in his lungs, his eyes intense, darting from the track to dally on her spread legs, her long skirt riding high, bunched up about her waist. The muscles of her legs distinguish themselves and fade, as she braces against the changing g-forces.

The close confines of the vehicle get closer as her whispers turn to whimpers.

His neck is hot with exertion and his own arousal when her moan lets him know she's there. He cuts his gaze to watch the rosy peaks jutting from her blouse go taut, feels the stripping of gears inside the transmission. He pulls the e-brake and sends the car into a spin, choking her with her own breath, adding external force to amplify the internal spiral she rides.

They're both panting when the car comes to a stop, a spray of smoke billowing out the back end.

"Take me on the lawn. Now, Edward."

He wants to. He tries not to imagine the drag of her breasts against his chest, the slick of her sex.

He smiles, eyes closing. He knows this demand has only one correct response.

He breathes, his exhalation smooth. "I don't think so. Not this time."

Control. That's another thing Heidi teaches.

She hands the smile back to him, her eyes bleached of lust, clean. "Go get the Honda, we're going to change gears."

He chuckles and gets out of the car, walking to the exit. He doesn't swagger, he doesn't need to. At seventeen he owns every inch of his body, feels it. His awareness of moving is the last thing needing his consideration.

The previous time he left Heidi, it wasn't self-satisfaction that followed him. It was a bullet.

It carved a tidy line through the skin wrapping his deltoid.

Aro leans against the wall of the track, a book balanced on one palm. Masen tosses him the keys with tacky fingers.

"That transmission's toast."

"And how's Heidi?"

"Ready for round two."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: I may just abandon past tense. Ugh, it's so hard for me. I don't know why... must investigate! So, you know the story, this is unbeta'd and roughly written._

_P.S. Thanks for reading! Lots of love!_

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Perimeter

* * *

It's a heavy sort of evening, weighted by the accumulation of summer heat, pressing down, bounced back by the dark streets. It's a heat that clings to the warm blooded, surrounding them into the night like a blanket they can't shake off. Houses not running A/C swelter long into the starry darkness, as bodies toss and turn on mattresses that will never be comfortable.

Fans just blow the heat around.

The clouds stretch across the sky like rolling waves, etched in pink and orange against the lavender twilight. Strolling under them and looking up, Bella reaches for Jake's hand. He gives hers a gentle squeeze before bringing it to his kiss.

Their lives aren't always easy, in fact, they're often hard. With Jake working long hours at the garage, and Bella, co-owner and bartender at Port Vic, their schedules align like the asteroid that barely misses Earth. A near-miss by astronomical calculations is 40,000 unfathomable miles with your feet on the ground.

He wakes her in the early morning hours with gentle kisses at her ear, her neck, whispering things to her that translate oddly into her fading dreams, bringing her fully awake with his gentle ardor. Leaving her lounging lazily, sometimes sated, to shower and shave; don his uniform, grab his lunch, peek in on Sam, fire up the pick-up and head to the garage.

There are calls and texts throughout the day. Reminder calls not to forget milk on the way home, little love notes that ping across the miles and bring tiny smiles to their faces.

Sometimes Sam gets dropped with Leah in the office of Forrester Garage where he waits for an hour or so for his dad to wrap up before the ride home. He has a playpen in there, full of soft squeezable books, things that rattle, and his imagination. Sometimes he goes with his mother to Port Vic where he talks over her shoulder from the carrier on Bella's back as she pulls and stocks liquor, counts the till, boots the computers, and cuts fruit.

They both know how lucky they are that Sam is good tempered, he smiles often, he has a surprisingly long attention span and can occupy himself at long intervals. If you hear his quavering wail, it's almost always because he managed to trap his fingers in something or bruise himself taking a fall.

That sound.

The sound of his cry brings a visceral, urgent reaction in three people. His family. Bella, Jake, and of course, Victoria.

Leah feels concern and will console, but the tether children have to their parents is made of blood. Though none is shared between Vic and Sam, a different binding was forged between them. Silvery and strong and made of love. A lonely only, Victoria did some adopting of her own when she found Bella in that computer lab.

Cocooned by ostracism and the abandonment of her kin, Bella discovered the things that truly mattered in the company of Victoria's flamboyant love; in the adventure of early motherhood, unshakable obligation, and the sturdy devotion of an ardent boy who had to become a man and a father in the same fell swoop.

Her heart is a kingdom of found family, hopeful with its youth, vigorous with her quiet passion, a perimeter of muscle that guards her most precious possessions.

She is a being of love. She feels it acutely under the summer swelter, as Sam points from his stroller at a ferociously active squirrel and yells, "Kitty!"

The rumble of laughter next to her, Jake's dark eyes pinched and merry, her own smile pushing back at her cheeks; this is their night to just be together, trailing their one day a week, Sunday, where their interstellar bodies collide for an unbroken 26 hour explosion.

_Will it always be this way? Is it possible for life to be this kind of wonderful for its full measure? _

The law of averages suggests not. You can only flip heads so many times before you get tails. And that thought eats at her sometimes.

Motherhood has a sidekick, its name is Worry and it is a devoted companion.

She tells herself, when irrational fear grips her, that she's thrown tails plenty of times. Surely. Enough. To deserve the steady peace she's been blessed with.

Jake parks the stroller under a willow tree, kicks down the brake to keep it from rolling, and pulls his wife into his warm lap. Her proximity always, _always_, puts him at ease. As a youth he would wait for the end of June—for her short visit to her father—with the torturous impatience children usual reserve for the wait for Santa.

He can't remember a time when he didn't adore her.

He tried to play it cool. Always waiting for her to come to him. When circumstances relocated her to her father's care, he surged with the potential of it. When her quiet independence—not shyness, not really—precluded her from being easily assimilated into the rank and file of loudmouth teens, he, the childhood friend, recognized his fortune in that he had no rival for her affection.

When he thought he had it in him for just a couple of thrusts before putting on the condom, he'd been wrong. He'd apologized.

But he wasn't sorry. Not for a minute.

Bella was all he ever wanted.

She had wrapped her beloved arms about him—her legs, too—and asked , "First time, what are the odds?"

She was a smart girl, her unknown IQ would have surprised even her. But in this, she was absolutely stupid. The odds were high.

The odds, in fact, were perfect.

They both told themselves it had to have been fate. And maybe it was. They bore up well. They were happy.

They're both thinking of it, under the willow, as Jake curls his fingers into her rich hair, running his thumb over her sunkissed cheek, asking, "How, Bella? How did _I _get so lucky?"

"_We_, Jake. _We_ got lucky."

He brushes her nose with his, turns his face and presses his warm mouth to hers. Dark heat works through her veins. She looks at him through her lashes, a heavy look that he associates with her pleasure, and his sweet smile spreads against her lips.

A stuffed animal, a timber wolf with a lolling tongue, hits him in the shoulder.

Sam has good aim.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: I've gotten some reviews asking if the B/J storyline will converge with Edward's. They will. I don't know if it will happen during the witfit or not, just seeing where the prompts take me. _

_P.S. Thanks for reading! Lots of love!_

* * *

**Word Prompt:** Element

**Plot Generator—Binding Blurb:** In 500 words or fewer, write a blurb or a short entry about** new discoveries.**

* * *

Masen takes the corner at a run, hopping a Labrador on a leash, putting his head down to find overdrive.

_You can't leave people alive, not the dangerous ones. If you have to shoot, shoot to kill. _

Aro always means what he says.

_You don't let people off with warnings._

_We are all insects undeserving of mercy. _

_Life is pain. _

His head is full of his breathing, his lungs are full of metal, molten, smoking. His limbs obey the urgency of his adrenalin. His mind churning to find a path out of this fucking mess.

Contingency plans are considered and discarded.

_You cannot win a won game, Edward. _

He knows where this path ends.

When we can't run anymore, we hide. Or we fight.

Or we kill.

Or be killed.

_God, I don't want to kill anyone. _

The .38 tucked into his belt is loaded. Its weight is insignificant. Everything in this moment feels insignificant. Except oxygen.

_Never discount the element of surprise. But never rely upon it, either. Strength, Edward. Superiority._

All options lead to checkmate.

Fuck it.

He slows to a walk, not looking over his shoulder, not paying heed to the silent surroundings. The ramshackle buildings making up the industrial complex slouch and decay in the corners of his eyes. All there is, in this moment, is the whipped breeze off the water, the weight of the weapon, the increasing proximity of steps behind him, and dread.

But also clarity.

What is more powerful, the capacity to kill, or the perceived capacity to kill? Is the reality of the thing more than the perception of it? If he has the capacity and people don't fear him—is that worse than not having it?

_I am not afraid, but I need others to be._

The economy of his motion resides in precision. In his decision. Made. In awareness and timing. He stops, steps, pulls the gun, flicks the safety.

Pulls the trigger.

_I am the dangerous one. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Irritable

**Dialogue Flex**: "Do you want me to go?" he asked.

* * *

Her neighborhood is absolutely still, the nuances of color and garden hidden by darkness, shrouded in the damp air of deep night. There's a soft glow flickering from behind the blinds when Bella pulls into her driveway. She kicks down the e-brake, turns the key to cut the engine, grabs her purse and heads up the few steps to the little bungalow.

She can hear Sam coughing though the door. A thin croupy cough that hurts to hear.

"Hi, momma." His face peeks out from a bundle of blankets, illuminated by the TV and the hypnotic eyes of Kaa, ironically attempting to seduce Mowgli into unconsciousness.

"Hi, baby. Feeling any better?"

The blanket perks up on one side as he shrugs a small shoulder. She drops her purse to the floor and goes to the couch to pull her small son in for a cuddle. His legs churn back the blankets so he can get into her lap, resting his flushed forehead against her chest.

"Didju get juice?"

She lets her cheek brush the top of his head as she holds her hand out to Jake, sitting quietly at the other end of the couch.

He doesn't reach for her hand, instead asking, "You didn't get my messages, did you?"

Her head shakes slightly and she says, "No. Are we out of juice?"

"And PediaCare. And Sam wanted some tator-tots. Considering he hasn't been very hungry the last couple days…"

He drifts off, his eyes suggesting—not overtly—that Bella failed to do her motherly duty.

Port Vic had been slammed. Bella walked in the door, distracted by her preoccupation with Sam's flu, gotten a hip-check from a divine Vic in matte red lipstick who told her to get her game face on, and then was under pressure for the next seven hours solid. Somehow Vic had managed to get Royal Crown Revue to stop into the bar as they passed through town and the turnout had been the biggest in Port Vic's three year history.

"I called the bar twice. Jess said she would give you the message, but I guess not."

Bella lets her cheek drift over Sam's silken hair as she shakes her head again.

"And your cell phone went straight to voicemail."

"The battery died." This happens a lot at Port Vic due to its location. The phone's constantly looking for a signal, so it has to be plugged in halfway through the night. Bella hadn't gotten the chance.

Jake spins in his seat, crooking a knee. "What if Sam was _really _sick, Bella. I had no way of getting a hold of you tonight. I didn't like it."

"You could have told Jess it was emergency. She would have told me that."

He runs brown fingers through black hair.

"You also could have bundled Sam up and gone to the store, yourself. You know… that's what I do during the day. While _you're _working_."_

"I don't want to take Sam out in the night air, Bells. That could make him worse. He needs to stay in here with the humidifier. And it wasn't such a big deal for you to stop by the store on your way home."

True enough, but still, sort of an excuse. At least in Bella's ears. She can't complain, or feels she can't. Jake pulls his weight, but certain things get laid at her doorstep, regardless of the fact that they both work full-time. Meals, shopping, budget, play-dates, doctor appointments, laundry. Sometimes it feels lopsided to her, although it never seems to occur to her husband that it might be.

He provides the majority of their income, handles household repairs when they require power tools, and he gets Sam fed, bathed and bedded each night Bella is at work. That is his domain of responsibility. He can pick things up from the store on his way home, but a week's worth of groceries is an unfathomable thing.

Usually, Bella barely notices. But in moments like this, moments where she has to feel his subtle disappointment, her mind spins. She starts mentally shifting responsibilities until scales start to tip. When her side touches down, burdened by the weight of all she attributes to herself, she starts to drop things into his column. Intangible things that seem to make the scale balance.

_I love him._

_He leaves me little voicemail songs with Sam giggling in the background. _

_The way he folds his pizza. The way he tucks Sam under one arm._

_The way he smells just out of the shower. Just like himself, with no heavy odor of lubricants or metal. _

_How proud he is when he does something trivial around the house. "Look Bella, I fixed the light-switch in the dining room."_

_How he pulls me against him in his sleep. _

She knows he doesn't mean to make her feel bad. He's trying to communicate his view of the situation.

"I guess I'll go back out. Do you have a list of what we need?"

Sam's skinny arms tighten about her, and she rubs her hand over his back. To Bella, there is only the thinnest aura of tension tangling between her and Jake, but she wonders if Sam feels it. He turns his face and coughs into her chest, his back bowing with the force of it.

"I just told you."

"Okay. I just thought there might be more. You don't have to be so grumpy, you know."

"I have to work in four hours. And I couldn't get a hold of my wife all night. I'm a little grumpy."

She slides Sam into the cocoon of his blankets, tucking him tight.

"I'm just going to go, Jake. Why don't you go to bed. Sam will fine on the couch until I get back."

Maybe it's something in her tone, or the way she moves to fetch her purse from the floor. Something causes Jake to notice that he isn't the only tired one. He thinks of just how much he doesn't want to go out right at the moment, how he feels when he first arrives home from a long day. For a moment, he glimpses the scales tipped Bella's direction. He doesn't get the full measure of it, but he gets enough.

He stands and reaches for her. "I'm sorry," he says into her hair. It smells faintly of her shampoo, and beer. "I'm just … irritable. Do you want _me _to go? I can go, Bella."

"No. You stay. You need to sleep. You're the one performing open-car surgery in the morning."

He chuckles, relieved.

"So—juice, PediaCare, tator-tots. Anything else?"

"I think we're out of ketchup."

Not a surprise. The boys eat ketchup on everything. "And ketchup."

"Hurry back."

She drives twelve miles to the all night grocery store, spends a few extra minutes reading labels on children's Tylenol vs. Motrin, ultimately throwing both into the basket along with an extra bottle of Dimetapp.

When she gets back home, both Jake and Sam are asleep on the couch, Sam's head on Jake's bicep, his breathing a shallow gurble, while Shere Khan mutely gets the better of Baloo on the silent television.

* * *

_A/N: My friend dreaminginnorweigen writes an exquisite Rosalie/Emmett story called Marked Indelibly. For her birthday the DTCPS paid tribute with a Rose/Em pairing in her honor. A little different, Artist Emmett, Guarded Rosalie. If you're looking for something to read you can find it by typing fanfiction dot net into your browswer and putting this tag after it: s/8592081/1/Bring-On-The-Dancing-Horses_

_P.S. Thanks for reading! Lots of love!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Hey Guys. Under the proverbial gun again, today. I'd like to say that this one is particularly choppy. Sometimes I feel a little lost without BelieveItOrNot to tell me where I have extraneous words, or where I can set a scene better, or pace with punctuation. I try to do these things on my own, but my eyes are not hers. Hers are beautiful. _

_And I'd like to thank you for being here, reading. And thank you for the reviews to the last prompt. So many of you understood the dynamic between Bella and Jake, could relate, and that gives me pride as a writer. _

_As usual, this is u__nbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompts**: Reduce, deduce, seduce

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

* * *

Aro drops the backpack to the table, careful not to disturb the board—set and ready. Edward slings it casually over the back of his chair. He doesn't check it.

"I'm reluctant to pay you, as you didn't necessarily … close escrow, if you know what I mean?"

Edward does.

Aro means the guy still walks and talks, the bounty requested the extinguishment of all faculties. In less florid language. Plainly—death. Edward had ignored it.

"I don't kill people." This isn't entirely true. He _prefers_ not to kill people, though those in his association know him to be more than capable of it.

Aro runs a gentle hand over his lips before speaking. "I know."

"Still. You gave me the job. I did it."

"I saw. Reduced to nothing, there was no fight left in the man. You did the job."

Aro looks to Edward out of the corner of his eyes. Edward watches Felix and Jane, seemingly mindless picnickers eating finger sandwiches out of hamper on the knoll beside the path.

"I wonder though. Is that more humane, Masen? Is what you did to him … better? Than death? To kill a man's soul?"

"Don't call me Masen."

The afternoon breeze riffles the hair of both men, stirs the leaves—vibrant, verdant—over their heads. Birds chatter, tweeting sweetly from their branches. Joggers pass, the muted thunder of their music faintly audible, the sharp scent of their exertion following after them.

"Killing is cheating," Edward goes on. "It precludes the game. I give my quarry opportunities to win."

Aro holds up a solitary finger, but he's no longer Edward's teacher and can't expect his words to bear the weight they did in Edward's youth. He makes his own decisions now, shaped though they may have been, in advance, by the graying man opposite him. Conditioned, as he is, he knows it. He doesn't much care or consider what the arc of his life might have been without Aro's peculiar brand of interference. "No, Edward. Killing … is checkmate."

Edward doesn't agree.

"No, Aro." He matches Aro's patient correction, always giving weight to the name and lilt to the lesson. "To mate is to threaten a kill, to checkmate is to remove all opportunities for victory. To kill is to not play. To remove all weapons from the fight."

"You like to play."

To an extent he does. He also loathes the game. Particularly at its climax.

"I do believe your way is the crueler of the two, my boy. You make death look so … desirable."

Jane laughs—false and coquettish. Her cherubic face—a face made for deception—turns toward Edward. Her eyes are corpses in her face, the absolute void of humanity visible even at this distance. He wonders if his eyes betray him in the same way. He directs his attention back to Aro.

"I prefer not to take life."

Aro clucks his tongue. "The removal of hope is the removal of life. Would you not agree?"

"Hope can be renewed, in theory."

Aro laughs. A dandy of a sound. "Oh my boy. If that were true in this case, I would not be paying you."

He gestures to the board. Edward moves.

"Ah, the Queens Gambit." Aro fingers a piece, decides, and moves. "Declined. How am I to hold you, Edward? I can't seduce you with drugs, you have no interest. Money gets cheap after you own a small fortune, as you must, by now. I've been generous."

Edward doesn't acknowledge the pause. His finances are one of the few things he guards from Aro's prying.

"I can't tempt you with women, you've not one that resides overlong in your esteem. And I cannot dominate you, not physically. You showed me that when you took Alec's purpose and left him only so much muscle in a poorly made sport-coat. You and I dance in the center of the board, trading control. From here, to the edge."

Edward quirks a heavy brow at Aro, who spreads his lips in his sweetest smile. It's not like him to bluntly name a thing, he prefers allusion.

"Love of the game, maybe?"

Aro castles and Edward takes a pawn.

"Just don't bore me. Keep the stakes high," Edward challenges.

"Your mother's son." Always warmly stated.

"My mother understood the power of selective violence. There are other ways to win."

"How do you know this? About her character?"

"You infer, I deduce." Edward slides his bishop across the board.

"Don't underestimate the power of selective violence, as a solution_. Sometimes, you have to pick the gun up, in order to put it down._ Malcolm X."

"_Violence recoils upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another."_

Aro's passive face bears only a hint of his deep amusement. "Doyle. Via Sherlock Holmes, I believe."

Edward smiles. It's a rare and beautiful thing. "Checkmate."

He leaves Aro looking at the board.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_As usual, this is u__nbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Display

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Imagined Image: See the fictionista witfit page for imagery.**

* * *

Jake can't put his finger on exactly what it is about Dimitri that rubs him the wrong way. It's something though. Maybe it's his smile. It's warm enough, but the eyes ... The frosted blue eyes are vacant somehow. Cold.

It makes Jake feel awkward, the way he gets up from his seat while Jake is mid-sentence, to look at the photos hanging on the wall. Turning his back like what Jake's saying is irrelevant, ignorable.

He hasn't ever had to sell himself, or his skills, before. People came into Forrester Garage with a need. Blown head-gasket, starter on the blink, flat tire, standard oil change. They came because they already knew Old Man Forrester. When Dick decided to retire, he worked a deal with Jake. Dick's office became Jake's and business kept on. People already knew Jacob Black. Hardworking young dad. Straight shooter.

To be a trusted mechanic predisposes the need to upsell your clients. You tell them their spark plugs need to be changed and they do it. You recommend a radiator flush and they sign on the line.

That isn't the case with Dimitri Nikolaev.

Jake's sentence dies away as Dimitri tilts his head to one side, looking for a long minute at the picture of Bella and Victoria, Sam between them, standing outside the aquarium on Sam's seventh birthday. He shifts his stance to study the snapshots of the Fiat Roadster Jake rebuilt last year.

Dimitri seems not to notice the silence. Instead he fills it, his accent faintly elongating his vowels. "This is nice work, here. The Fiat. That was what… a '76?"

"Yeah."

"Beautiful piece of machinery. See, Jake. This is what I need."

"Understood. I feel confident with any rebuild from that era. From about the fifties on. Earlier than that-"

Dimitri waves his hand, dismissing Jake's words. "Perfect."

He comes back to the desk and sits down. "So let's talk transportation. We display cars in several locations. Usually they go to Vegas, sometimes Miami. Sometimes L.A. I can't always get them there. I need a man who can. Someone reliable. Someone I trust. I like to have the man who did the work move the car. He knows how much time and money went into it. He won't hook the car up to a tow kit and let the road batter the fuck out of her. If that person is you Jake, I know you'll take care of the thing. Put it on a flatbed, keep your eye on her."

"Absolutely."

He wants this gig. Aside from it being fun, different from the daily drudgery of oil changes and tire rotations, the compensation Dimitri has alluded to is nice. Very nice. Bella could work a little less, they could even go on vacation. Take Sam to Disneyland. They've been saving for a few months, shooting for his eighth birthday. Bella says she wants to take him before he gets too old to appreciate the magic.

He had argued that you're never too old, but she didn't agree. Her position was that you have to go when you're young, that THAT is what creates the magic that doesn't fade.

"How many rebuilds do you normally do, in a year?"

"Probably about one per quarter. I find the cars here and there, so it just depends on when I come across them. I warn you, sometimes they're really run down. I'm talking scrap-shit, Jake."

"I like a challenge."

"I'm sure you do. Another thing. Sometimes the cars are not what you would consider classics. They won't always be-"

A knock at the closed door interrupts him. Dimitri raises a furry brow at Jake as the door parts from its frame and Bella sticks her face in.

"Oh, sorry. Sorry to interrupt."

Jake watches Bella enter the room, almost through the other man's eyes. He sees her grace and her beauty, feels pride at the sight of her. At Sam, fiddling with a red yo-yo at her side.

Dimitri is on his feet in one easy motion, opening the door all the way and holding his hand out to her. Her hair is pulled mindlessly into a ponytail, fresh face free of foundation or the need for it, lush lashes framing her sweet eyes. Her black t-shirt reads _Port Vic,_ the words bold against a bright white moon.

She seems very young to him in this moment.

She places her hand in Dimitri's, her eyes sliding to Jake as Dimitri rolls it so her knuckles are up. His eyes don't leave her face as he asks, "Your wife?"

Jake watches him press a kiss to Bella's fingers, wondering if Bella thinks the gesture is smooth, as Dimitri seems to intend it, or corny. Probably corny.

"Yes. And my son. Guys, this is Mr. Nikolaev."

"Mr. Nikolaev is my father. Please - call me Dimitri." He gives them a smile. Sweet. Non-threatening. Comforting. Off.

He goes down to a knee so he can look Sam in the eyes. He's small for his age. Someone who doesn't know him might mistake him for a six year old, or even a kindergartner. Jake knows he tries not to be insulted when people underestimate him. Though he can't help noticing that Sam does, occasionally, worry about his size. Like the conversation they had over dinner the other day.

"_Were you very small, when you were little, dad?"_

"_Yep, didn't start getting big until 7th grade."_

"_And I'm only in 2nd now."_

"_That's right."_

"_Mom's small, though. I could be small like her."_

"_You could be. This is why she makes you eat broccoli. You know that, right?"_

"_Yeah. And actually, Dad. I kind of like broccoli now. You know? I hated it when I was a kid."_

"_Me too. I like it with ranch."_

"_I know. Dad, that is so gross." He says "gross" the way Bella says it: gee-ross._

"_Are you sure you're my son? Maybe we should get tested."_

_Sam giggled. "Daaa-ad. Mom doesn't like Ranch either. I get that from her."_

"_Oh. I guess that's okay, then."_

They had looked at each other, their TV trays balanced on their thighs, their smiles matching. Now Sam shakes Dimitri's hand, saying, "Nice to meet you." Then he walks over to hug his dad, reaching for the jar of paperclips, grabbing it and scooting backwards into a chair to wait, linking the clips together to make a chain.

Bella puts a paper bag on Jake's desk, burritos from Tanya's Taqueria, and a Mexican coke. "This is dinner. Sorry, I'm running late. Sam, come on, why don't you wait in Leah's office so Dad can finish his meeting. "

Jake smiles. "Thanks, Bells."

"No prob. See you later. Love you."

"Love you."

"Nice to meet you, Dimitri."

"Likewise, Mrs. Black."

The door closes behind them and Dimitri retakes his seat. "Good looking family."

Jake thanks him, but he doesn't like the man's compliment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Just to clarify. These vignettes are all background snapshots for a story I'm planning called The Black Queen. I may end up writing it as part of an ongoing witfit, I don't know. Right now I'm more allusive than directly explanatory, so there are probably more questions to be found here than answers. __Thanks for coming for the ride. Have a great weekend! __As usual, this is u__nbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Stone

**Plot Generator—Phrase Catch**: When opportunity knocks...

Repeat the phrase to yourself five times, open a blank word document and begin.

* * *

It's a beautiful day. To him.

That means the sun isn't shining, isn't showering him in unwanted brightness and deceptive cheer. The clouds hang heavy, seemingly just over his head, matching his mood with their somber violet-charcoal threats.

It's going to rain.

Not just maybe. Definitely. And soon.

The wind kicks over his short stubble of hair, his head light from his annual haircut. On this day each year he buzzes the bronze locks gone, clean to the scalp. He's usually ready, tired of hair falling in his eyes, distracting him, distracting others.

He places his back to the headstone, one shoulder just reaching the capital _E_ for Elizabeth, the other almost touching the little _a_ at the end of her surname, Valentina. Elizabeth Valentina. The etched years that bookend her life are obscured by his body as he bends a knee, pulls a clear plastic container from a paper sack, and has lunch with his mother.

Greek salad, the tomatoes and cucumbers diced, the oregano liberal. No feta.

He doesn't bring flowers and he doesn't speak.

He remembers her.

Just her. As best he can.

Trying not to think of anything since her. Filling his mind with the things that fade with time, the way she smelled and her laugh. The bend of her wrist as she spoke, champagne on her breath. The heart-shaped freckle under her eye, which he really only remembers because of Aro's pictures of her.

He remembers the wardrobe that sparkled turquoise and vermilion and aubergine. The heels, the hair-combs, the handbags. Statuesque and radiant—accessorized in gold and gems.

A stainless steel .32. Gun-metal gray, mother of pearl inlay. Kept handy. One of those things a child just accepts.

In her wardrobe could be found the black of a cat-suit, the frayed laces of abused boots, the secretive softness of kid leather gloves.

"She was training you, you know."

Aro sets a Lady Slipper Orchid on the base stone and takes a seat next to Edward.

"Yes. I reached that conclusion long ago."

"Did you? Clever boy."

Edward doesn't respond right away, setting the half empty container to the side and pulling the earbuds from his ears. Chopin's melancholy music just a tremor on the wind.

"So were you, when you let me forage for two years on the streets."

Aro pulls the zipper on his jacket up to his neck, curling his fingers inside the pockets.

"Why would I do such a thing? To a defenseless boy?"

"The opening game. What is known, and what is thought to be known. I thought I knew what life was without your help. I was wrong."

Edward watches a procession of mourners moving slowly away from an open hole in the ground. The sod ripped back, a mound of dirt waiting—trying to be inconspicuous—but everyone sees it.

Afterlife is diseased, the living protected from it by the dirt.

He presses a cigarette to his lips, cupping his hand around the lighter to protect the flame from the wind. The paper crackles as he sucks in the smoke, clouds form and dissipate from his nose with his exhalation.

"Do you regret getting in my car?"

"Did I ever really have the choice?"

"I like to think you didn't."

"Who killed Elizabeth?"

Aro sighs. "That is such a philosophical question, Edward. It could be argued that Elizabeth killed Elizabeth. Although, I'm sure you won't find that to be an acceptable answer."

"In the manner a slave seals his fate by turning on the master?"

Aro, always genuinely amused by Edward—and other things that aren't strictly amusing—laughs vibrantly. It doesn't match the somber day. The sound stands apart between them—too bright, too happy.

"Is that how you remember her, as a slave?"

Edward runs his long fingers through his absent hair, surprised, as he always is after the cut, not to feel its silken slide against his hand. "I'm burdened with a child's perspective where she is concerned."

"'My salad days, when I was green in judgment, cold in blood. To say as I said then!'" Aro smiles pointedly at Edward.

He flicks ash from the cigarette, the wind carries it off. "Shakespeare."

"Indeed. And the play?"

"I don't care to be tested Aro, not today."

"Ahh, but sometimes I'm not testing. I'm teaching. The play is _Antony and Cleopatra. _One of my favorites._"_

Aro reaches into his inner jacket pocket and brings out a flask, warm from his chest, the sip of brandy heating him from the inside out. He offers it to Edward who gives a small shake of his head. Aro sips again, twists the lid back on and tucks it away, rubbing his palms together.

"My middle name." Masen Antony Valentina

"Yes. Do you know, Edward – how old Cleopatra was at the height of her power? She was no youth, no freshly opened flower. She was a woman. She was wise, she was cunning. She was beautiful. She fell in love – she died."

His voice oozes false pity. Not for Cleopatra and her tragic snake-brought end. For another woman.

"And my father?"

"Some things, Edward, remain unknown. I'm sorry." His expression and his tone suggest truth. Edward knows he lies.

He tilts his head, leveling his green gaze on Aro. "Do they?"

Aro smiles and ignores the allegation.

"Your last job didn't go so well. I had news that you spent some time in a hospital. Pity."

"I got it done, in the end."

"So you did. And now you have a devilish scar splitting your lips. You know, I half think you cut yourself, simply because the marring becomes you so much."

"Flattery, Aro. Wasted on me, as you well know."

"I don't flatter, I observe. How will you explain it?"

"Dog bite."

"Satisfactory. And the leg?"

"Healing."

"Excellent. When will you be operational again?"

A long silence stretches between them. The clouds grumble overhead, moving quickly as the violence of the storm finds them. Edward can hear rain hitting grass not far away. A moment later he feels a cold drop on his neck. He field-strips his cigarette, slipping the butt into his pocket.

"I'm taking some time off. Maybe a year. When I come back I don't want to be bothered with piddly shit, Aro. Not like this last job. "

"I would argue that _you_ are what went wrong on the last job. Sometimes killing is better, someday I hope you'll learn that."

"Someday, maybe."

There can be no mistaking the threat in his face. Cutting through the complicated relationship—made of respect, disdain, love and hate—is the promise:

_I am a tool of revenge, someday I will seek it for my mother._

"Take your vacation, Edward. You need it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: ____Tam. I wish I could paste a heart in here for you. _

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Click

A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.

* * *

Port Vic is quiet, the late afternoon sun spilling gently in the small windows, not doing much to illuminate the darkness of the bar. Victoria counts the money in the till, closing the drawer just as a knock sounds from the locked front door.

Her heels leave a hollow tap against floor with each step. She throws the bolts and swings the door in.

"Oh great, it's you again. Weren't you just here?" Victoria's tone reaches higher than usual.

"Yeah, three months ago."

"Doesn't that make you early?"

"We inspect two to four times per year, Miss Spencer."

She thought it was just two. It seems like in the past it was six months—or longer—between his visits.

"So many?" She closes and locks the door behind him, melodramatically checking her watch as she leads him to the kitchen. The small room is still, stainless steel counters gleaming against the faint odor of lemons and dishwashing detergent.

He pushes his glasses back on his nose. "Shall we start in the refrigerator?"

"Why the fuck not, Mr. Kelly? It's where we keep the food."

"This will go faster, Miss Spencer, if you drop the sarcasm."

He opens the fridge, pulling out a Tupperware container of plastic wrapped chicken breasts. He points to the masking tape on the lid. "Is this date correct?"

She shrugs. "Should be."

"Can I see the receipt?"

Victoria rolls her eyes at him. "Who bought your tie?"

James clears his throat. "That's not relevant, Miss Spencer."

"It's horrid. You should cut it into pieces and burn it."

His lower jaw swivels as his brows jump, an obvious _whatever. _"The receipt?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hang on."

Victoria pulls the file from the office, aggressively striding back through the swinging door and slapping it on the countertop. James has his thermometer gun out, taking readings of all the tubs in the cold case.

"Anything rotting?"

He pulls his pen from the clipboard, clicks the end to push out the nib, and jots the purchase date of the chicken in his notes.

"Just your attitude. As usual. You seem like you have a real problem with authority."

"You're not an authority over me, Mr. Kelly. You're an annoyance."

He keeps writing. "I'm sorry you think so."

Victoria rolls her lips in. She likes it when his attention is off her. She can relax and look at him. "I do have to thank you for at least showing up while we're closed this time."

A muscle clenches in his jaw. "Mmhmm. This is my preference as well."

Last time he was at Port Vic, their bickering had gone on through the inspection until Angie, Port Vic's cook, yelled at them to shut up. That she couldn't concentrate with all their flirting. She had followed that sentiment with "Seriously. You guys should just fuck already."

After Angie suggested it, she'd thought about it.

She wonders if he did, too. He probably didn't. He's a straight-laced asshole who probably masturbates to alien based hentai. He probably drinks rum and diet coke. He probably leaves toothpaste-spit in the sink.

James had blushed scarlet, scrawled his name hastily at the bottom of the form, given Victoria her copy—the salmon colored one—and left. Victoria had actually felt bad for him.

Until he showed up today. His scruffy face and his fucking ponytail just bothered her. Like he's trying to defy the establishment while working for it. Like a cop who smokes weed. Victoria doesn't like hypocrisy. She doesn't like James Kelly, the sourpuss-stick-in-the-mud health inspector.

His pen scratching against the clipboard seems unreasonably loud in the quiet kitchen.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Don't drink on the job."

"Off the job?"

He looks up from his clipboard, one eyebrow raised. It reminds Vic of Bella, how much she can communicate without words. She's thankful she doesn't blush, as Bella does. As James does. Because she feels incredibly stupid right now. His expression essentially making her feel all of two inches tall.

"A little." He kneels and opens the cabinet under the sink. "Is that your real hair color?"

Self-conscious, Victoria pulls the Camel from behind her ear, depositing it between her lips, talking around it. "Why, does it look unnatural to you?"

"It was pink the last time I was here."

"I stripped it."

He stands. "Okay. Let's move to the bar."

_Just _okay?

Behind the bar, James opens the fridge, examining the plastic wrapped containers of fruit. Victoria, fully aware she's doing it, looks at herself in the mirrored wall behind the glass bottles. This hair-color is close to hers, despite coming out of a box. It's the color of a new penny. Feria calls it Copper Shimmer. It makes her freckles prominent. It makes her hazel eyes especially olivey.

She silently chastises her reflection.

_You do not want the health inspector. _

"When was the last time you had the ice machine serviced?"

_A long fucking time._

She sighs.

"A couple months ago. You want the receipt on that too, I bet."

"Please."

She rolls her eyes and heads back into the office, her inner monologue attempting a healthy bolster, but she feels melancholy. Her offer of a drink was flat out rejected. She feels like she should try to explain that it was just a peace offering, knowing that the words will sound painful between them. Like that moment your date tells you that you have a peppercorn in your teeth. It just kind of sucks.

She's still shuffling through unfiled papers when James pokes his head in. "Can't find it?"

"It's here somewhere. I just… I just fucking saw it." Face still pointed toward the desk, she drags a hand through her hair, wild and wavy. Her eyes shift to his, worried. "Are you going to violate me for this?"

His cheeks flare and his mouth opens. No sound comes out.

"You've been coming into my bar for four years and you've never once cited me. Not even a blue-code violation."

"Victoria-"

"You know I get the machine done regularly. Isn't there a sticker on it, or something?"

"I'm in love with you."

"What?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: ______Hi Guys! I have a tumblr where I post imagery and other things for my stories. You can see a Lister here:_

_______ireenh dot tumblr dot com /________tagged/The%20Black%20Queen_

_________________ (take the spaces out, replace the word dot with an actual dot, and mush it all together)_

**_________________WARNING - My tumblr has mature content. So NSFW or kids or the easily offended. _**

_________I've been trading off Bella and Edward's worlds each day, but Edward is on vacation right now. Both in the story and in my mind, so let's see how Jake is doing with his new job. As usual this is unbeta'd and rough. And I know nothing about cars or driving. Much love!_

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Rise

**Dialogue Flex**: "Who's responsible for this?" she asked.

Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.

* * *

Jake has never seen the moon before, not like this, hanging low and bright in the desert sky. He watches its rise over mud colored hills—glowing blue in the new twilight—as he offloads the Lister. The St. Speare place is massive, a sprawling Spanish ranch nestled in an unreal patch of green contrasting an otherwise dusty landscape. The smooth expanse of driveway terminates at the glass walls of the garage, illuminated from the inside, allowing Jake to see the variety of cars stored there.

A couple dozen or more, some pristine, others battered, their fine paint streaked or pockmarked, bumpers dented, glass cracked. He smiles to himself, amused. Cars are meant to be driven, in some cases, driven hard. There's something to be said for a collector who doesn't simply show them around, but takes them out to see what they're made of.

No one's yet greeted him, despite his text to Dimitri announcing his arrival—done as instructed. The place is still, a chirping cricket the only disruption to the heavy quiet.

Clipboard in one hand, rag in the other, he prepares to run Dimitri's final checklist - adjusting mirrors, wiping down the leather, the tires, checking the finish, the undercarriage.

He's halfway under the vehicle, the pavement against his back still warm from the day, when he hears footsteps moving towards him and the sound of a low feminine whistle. "Who's responsible for this beauty?"

He slides out from under the Lister, sitting up to find a woman standing several paces away, one arm crossed over her stomach, the other bent , her hand at her mouth. She taps a French manicured finger against opalescent lips, smiling as she circles the vehicle again.

"I love it. The color is stunning. I wasn't sure about Oceanus Pearl based on the swatch, but wow. How fast does she go?"

Jake gets to his feet, tucking his rag in his back jean pocket. "Don't know. Dimitri made it clear I was not to drive the vehicles."

"Feh. That old Russkie. He finds the vehicles. I own them." She holds out her hand, gold bangles clattering together at her wrist. "Heidi."

He reaches for it with a smile. "Jake."

"So, Jake. The Lister Storm can supposedly break 200 MPH. You want to see if that's true?"

"I believe it. That V12 is almost 7k cc's. She's got giddyup."

Heidi's brown eyes are luminous in the glow from the house. "Let's find out. Keys?"

Jake fishes the key ring out of the truck, placing them in Heidi's hand. She gestures for him to get in the passenger seat.

She rolls slowly down the driveway—flicking the lights on, adjusting her rear-view—and off onto a side road. It leads about a mile into the desert behind the house, to a small speedway.

"Mine," she declares.

She pulls the car up to the gate, letting it idle as she thumbs a remote control. The gate slides open. Another button has lights blinking on lazily, and then they're pulling in through a narrow tunnel and onto the blacktop. Heidi does a few easy laps before stopping just beyond the turn.

Jake feels as though he's stepped out of reality. It isn't as if he doesn't know that there are excessively rich people in this world. He's just never actually experienced it.

"So, Jake. Let's wager. How quickly can we get her up to 60?"

Not entirely free from his awkward displaced feeling, Jake says, "I really don't have anything to bet."

"Just give me a number. I'll throw in a bonus if you're right."

"You can control whether I'm right or not. Your foot is on the gas pedal. Not mine."

She turns her face to him, not taking her hands from the steering wheel. "You're ruining my fun with your trust issues. Pedal to the floor, I promise."

She licks her lips, her tongue fresh and pink. Jake gives her the first number that comes to mind. "Five seconds."

In neutral, she toes the gas, the engine humming as she holds his gaze. "An eternity. You wearing a watch?"

He nods.

"On three, then. Ready? One."

Jake turns his wrist, pressing the button to bring up the stopwatch.

"Two."

Heidi faces forward, putting the car in drive.

"Three."

The tires chirp, new and responsive, and Jake feels the acceleration in his stomach, in his chest, in his hair. In the skin around his mouth and eyes. The world outside the car goes blurry, all of his senses reduced to the roar of the engine, the urgency of forward motion, the push of air in his lungs. He is a mass of particles, energy and speed, part of the car, part of the movement, for all of three whole seconds.

He remembers his watch right as Heidi says, "That's sixty!"

He grins. "Four point nine two."

"FUCK YEAH!"

Her smile is huge, alive. Invigorating.

She slows the Lister to a stop, turning again to Jake. This time at the waist, leaning back against the door. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

"I'm not that young."

Her eyes drift from his dark hair to his unlined face. "You can't me more than, what—twenty-five?"

"Twenty-seven. But I feel a lot older."

"Ah. You must be married."

He chuckles in confirmation.

"You're not wearing a ring."

"Mechanic." All he needs to say by way of explanation.

"Marriage kills testosterone. That's why you feel old. How long've you been married?"

"Almost eight years."

"Nice. You're over the hump then. Seven year's the itch, right?"

"I didn't have that."

"Hmmm. Do you have a picture? Of your wife?"

"You know …" He shakes his head. "I don't."

Heidi tilts her head to one side, biting her lip. "Get one. Carry it with you. This … Vegas, is a weird place. Full of weird people. Make sure you have that thing that keeps you steady, Jake. Every time you come here. And not to sound like a painful movie cliché, but watch yourself. A lot of trouble gets brewed up, here in this wasteland."

"Are you … warning me?"

She answers with a smile, her Marilyn mole disappearing in the pinch of her cheek. Her fingers pop the seat-belt free and she opens her door. "Your turn."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: ______Hi Guys! FYI - YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME. I love your reviews and the things you share with me. __ As usual this is unbeta'd and rough. And rushed. And possibly shitty. _

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Tension

**Plot Generator—Idea Completion**: Be careful what you wish for.

An idea or concept is presented. Follow where it leads you.

* * *

"I don't know, Jake. He's a little …"

Jake rests his hands against the edge of the table, looking away from the cylinder he holds and up at Bella. "What Bella? What is he?"

She shrugs, turning back towards the dishes in the sink. "Just. Immature maybe. He makes me uncomfortable … a little."

Jake snorts.

_Thanks for giving a shit._

"Well, he's a damn good mechanic. I need the extra hands."

"I don't know why you're asking me, then. You already hired him, anyway." She dumps a load of silverware, freshly rinsed, into the dishwasher as Jake stuffs a slim bottle-brush in the cavern of the pipe he's cleaning. He sighs.

"I ask, Bella, because your opinion matters to me."

"My opinion, Jake, is that this is a poor decision. He's always been a hot-head. I just think that he may prove a little, I don't know… difficult."

"Leah's settling him down. He's changed a lot since you last saw him." Leah started dating Paul Lahote when he got out of prison about six months ago. Bella had been surprised, but quietly so.

"Last time I saw him he asked me if I wanted to buy some hash. Did you drug test him?"

She rubs her palms on her apron. She doesn't want to argue. Not again.

"No. I'm not going to drug test him. He says he's clean. I'm going to trust him."

Bella doesn't say anything, her lips pursed as she returns the milk to the fridge, the tortilla chips to the cabinet. What's the point, really? Jake's made his decision.

"Besides, he has to drug test as part of his parole. And I grew up with the guy, Bells. Yeah, he's been through some shit. He deserves a second chance."

_Or a third, a fourth. Sometimes twelve. _

"We've all been through some shit, Jake. Not all of us do hard time for it."

Jake runs the brush over the grooves, roughly scraping grime from the threads. "You don't understand, you didn't grow up on the rez."

Bella rolls her eyes at the spices as she returns them to the rack. "Of course I don't."

"It's different, when you're tribe." He blows on the part, flakes of rusty metal littering the sheet-draped dining room table.

"You know – I am so sick of you pulling the rez-card for your friends. We all go through shit. It doesn't invalidate my experience, or what I've been through, my not being _tribe."_

He turns to her. "I don't _pull the rez-card._ And if you recall, I _said_ I value your opinion, that isn't invalidation."

"Yeah, you ask me for it and then you just tell me it's bee-ess."

"What the hell is your problem today, Bella?"

_My problem?_

_My problem is that you hired a fucking ex-con at the shop without even asking me how I felt about it—one who grabs my ass and thinks it's funny—without drug-testing him, which our insurance company is going to frown upon. Your last trip to Vegas took almost two whole weeks, you haven't touched me in three—except to hand me the mail, which doesn't count. Sam has a parent teacher conference tomorrow about his Language Arts grade—which is a D—and I'm tired. _

_And I miss my best friend. It didn't used to be this hard. _

Her inner voice has a bitter edge to it. Sorrowful.

She knows better than to say any of it out loud. Lately, the tension between them is giving way to an odd loneliness. Her marriage becoming a place where she is a stranger.

"Nevermind. I have to go to work." She unlaces her apron, hanging it on the hook.

"Not _have_ to. Choose to."

"Fine. I _choose_ to go to work. Which is good, since I'm scheduled."

"Bella."

"Yeah."

"Hey. Sorry about Paul. I'll keep him away from you."

She pulls the keys from her bag, Jake's white flag somehow insufficient unto her feelings, but she needs to accept it anyway. She gives him a smile.

"I would appreciate that. I don't really like hash."

He laughs. It's a good sound. One she hasn't heard much lately.

"Later, gater."

"Have a good night."

She backs the Fiat out of the garage, flicking on the lights but not the music.

There are a number of reasons why Jake took the Nikoleav job. They discussed it at length. Bella had pulled a sheet of paper out of the printer, folded it in half and wrote _PROS_ on one side of the fold. _CONS_ on the other.

The list on the negative side was long.

Unknown extended hours for Jake, times of extreme pressure, having Dimitri (who they both agreed was a little sketchy) as a boss. Long trips out of town. Needing to hire another mechanic at Forrester to pick up the slack. Less time with family.

That was already in short supply.

The positive side of the line had a big one on it though, that seemed to tip the scales. Money.

The money was nice, almost criminally so, and they both had designs on it. That, and Jake really wanted to do it.

So they did it.

They'd been doing it for a year.

Bella can't help looking at it like it's temporary. Mostly because she wants it to end. Jake works late almost every day, and often weekends. Originally, he said one car every three months or so, but after the first one was done—the Lister—Bella found new cars being dropped off almost monthly. The money is stacking up in their savings account, which felt incredible at first, and now it just feels like a number.

The amount of money she's trading her marriage for.

The amount of money her son gets in exchange for time with his father.

Jake is edgy almost all the time. Coming home, wolfing down food, showering and falling asleep on the couch. His eyes speak of endurance, like he's looking far beyond himself. He gets snappish with Sam—who forgives him immediately and completely—every time Jake says, "Sorry big guy. I'm just wiped out."

"I know, Dad. It's okay."

He gets more than snappish with Bella. At times he's downright mean. He's said things, odd things that seem to come out of nowhere. Things Bella has begun to wonder about. Have these things always bothered him, or only now? That she needs to do something different with her hair, that she never smiles. That she has all this extra time now – what the fuck is she doing with it?

She'd gone down to two days a week at Port Vic, Friday and Saturday, and that had been really nice, necessary even, since Jake was working past Sam's bedtime half the time.

It isn't nice anymore. Now she just feels guilty about it.

It used to be when Jake woke her up before work, he did it with gentle kisses at her neck, her shoulders. Not with complaints about why he can't find clean socks—as he did this morning. She'd gotten out of bed, pulled the whites from the dryer, and handed him a pair of socks. He apologized.

"I'm sorry, Bells. I should have looked there. Dumb of me. I'm sorry."

His apologies have the same affect on her that they have on Sam. She immediately and completely forgives him.

Not quite.

Almost.

Something of the grudge remains. Accumulating inside her, collecting with the hurt and the disappointment. And the isolation.

She can't talk to her best friend, he doesn't listen to her, not really. She's spoken to Vic, who offered up the helpful opinion that Jake was cheating.

"No. He wouldn't do that. It's something … else. I don't know what it is."

"You got married really young, Bella. I mean. Maybe you guys are growing apart."

That thought hurt. A lot.

But that isn't it, either.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: There's this weird expression about being busier than a one armed paper hanger. I don't know what the heck that is, but I'm going to say it anyway. That's how busy I've been today and yesterday. I'm pretty surprised I even got this done today. SO YAY ME! AND YAY YOU FOR READING! As usual - Unbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompts**: Thrill, spill, chill

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

* * *

"_The thrill is gone, baby. The thrill is gone awayyy."_

Her voice is like hot honey—spilling out of her, thick and sweet—husky at times, smoke and bourbon. It fills the room, finding Bella's blood, making it ache. Sending chills through Bella's spine, bringing tears to her eyes.

Allison Brandon wails into the microphone, her hands skimming the stand, fingers splayed and touching at the tips. Her hair is a cloud of kinky dark curls, fluffed about her face, making her appear a soft brown dandelion. Very soft, very warm, very unusual. Her almond eyes are sensuous in shape, starling in color. Gray eyes set in a creamed coffee complexion. She'd been introduced to Bella a few months back, explaining her ethnicity as half black, half Japanese, half Anglo-whatever. With a dash of Irish. But mostly that's the Jameson's.

She winds the song down, letting the final note die alone, lingering in the air with the complicity of the crowd. Their applause only begins after her voice has completely evaporated.

She sips a hot toddy from her big four leaf clover mug, smiling as she sets it back down on the stage floor.

"Hey, Port Vic." Her voice is a breathy whisper. "How you all doing tonight?"

Port Vic responds with raucous cheers.

"That's because you're drinking in my very favorite bar. Port Vic, as in Victory. Best in the west."

Victoria—leaned back against one of the pillars—holds up her glass. "Hear-hear!"

The crowd shifts and murmurs their agreement.

"In case you don't already know, we're Creature of the Night. We play other peoples stuff, our own stuff, this and that. Here and there. To my left—your right—is our guitarist-slash-fiddler, Jasper Whitlock. Hands off ladies. Behind him is our bassist Rosie the Riveter. Show 'em your guns, Rosie. Nice. That thing on drums, well to be honest, I don't know what that is. But we call him Emmett. He responds to that. Usually."

The room laughs. People, all different types, melded into one entity by music.

"And I'm Alice Von Singer, at least for the time being. I'm hoping to change my name soon. Ask me 'to what.'"

She extends the microwave towards the bright faces below, they respond in unison. "To what?"

"Well, very soon I hope to be Alice Von Cellist." She looks at her non-existent watch, her expression contemplative. "Maybe in say, twenty minutes?"

A lone voice calls out, "Marry me, Alice Von Singer!"

She tsks into the microphone. "You flatter me mystery man, but you might reconsider should you see the size of my closet. Ask me how big it is."

The crowd together: "How big is it?"

"My closet is so big, you could park a … hmm. Maybe … something …"

She shifts her weight, questioning Jasper with an outstretched hand. He grins. "Something like a G6?"

She nods emphatically, pointing at him. "That's what it is. Something fly. Like a G6."

Rosie the Riveter thumbs out some harmonics as Emmett kicks the bass drum. The room gets warmer as music vibrates all the air within it. Alice starts to sing, a fucky little pop song, she would call it, but arranged for the swing and stomp of bebop.

"_Poppin' bottles in the ice… getting slizzered." _

Dancers groove from wall to wall. Bella works. Pulling beers, mixing cocktails. Victoria elbows her in the back as she grabs some water bottles for the band. "Cheer up mopey face."

Bella gives her big fake smile.

"Atta girl."

"I'm taking ten."

Vic dismisses her with a wave of the hand. Bella heads down the hallway, through the office and out the back door into the alley. She checks her phone. One new text.

**Hey mom can I have a Rockstar?**

She punches out her response. **No way.**

Her phone lights up a minute later. **But Embrys having one. **

**The answer is still no. **

When she doesn't get a response, she texts again.

**Stick with soda. Can I get an affirmative?**

She calls Jake, her fingers clutching the phone a little too tight. It goes straight to voice mail.

_Everything's fine. Nothing to worry about. _

_Everything is fine. _

She slips the phone back into her apron pocket, leaning against the back wall of Port Vic, trying not to imagine all the terrible things that could've happened. Trying not to imagine things like car accidents and pretty women.

Jake should've called hours ago.

_Maybe his phone died. _

The back alley door opens and Vic's red head pops out. "Nothing yet?"

Bella gives her a little head-shake.

"I'm sure he's fine, Bella. He's going to call any time. You watch."

She nods.

Victoria aches inside. She hates saying shit like that. It feels empty and meaningless and wrong. That's why Bella's worried right now, because Jake always calls when he pulls into Vegas. Always.

She shakes a cigarette from her pack and lights it, sucking hard at the filter, her cheeks caving in.

"Laurie got everything covered in there?"

"Yeah. Everyone's dancing right now anyway. S'all good in the hood, yo."

Bella holds her hand out and Vic stares at it before giving her an eyebrow and a shoulder shrug. "What?"

"Let me have a drag of that."

"You are fucking kidding me, girl." But she hands it over, watching Bella put it to her lips and take a tiny puff—tiny, and awkward. "Don't start smoking, Bells. Gateway drug, ya know?"

"I thought that was marijuana." She hands it back and Victoria takes a long pull, nodding. "Maybe that's what it is. Yeah, that sounds right."

"You probably don't remember because you baked all your brain cells back then."

"Still do. When they say gateway, what they mean is gateway to awesomeness."

"I don't think that's what they mean, V."

"Well, whatever. I'll start my own campaign."

Bella laughs. It's short and not very happy. "Marijuana. Gateway to awesomeness."

"More like _Marijuana, less likely to kill you than heroine. Or cigarettes. _You ready to go back in?"

She nods, following Vic back through the heavy door. Her phone vibrates in her apron just as she steps out of the cool night air and back into Port Vic. It's Sam.

**Affirmative.**

It's another three hours before Jake calls. The phone rings as she's locking up Port Vic, mind racing furiously.

Flat tire, no cell service.

No big deal.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Again. Paper-hanger thingie. So this is short and IDK. Tomorrow will probably be the same. However, I hope to get Edward and Bella's paths crossing in the next few prompts. Hugs to you guys, my beloved readers. _

_Unbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompt: **Dim

**Scenario: **You finally receive the lucky break you've been hoping for. Tell us about it.  
Complete the scenario in any way, in any style, and for any word count. Open your mind and follow where it leads, writing as you go.

* * *

Jake sleeps. Bella watches him, the side of his face pressed into the pillow, hair spilling onto his cheek. His back rises and falls with each breath, his eyelashes flutter gently, he occasionally makes a choking sound in the back of his throat. He doesn't snore.

There's a deep laceration running from his deltoid to his hip, as if the single slap of a whip caught him, tore him open. And one of his eyes is blackened. The plane under his eyebrow is still swollen and purple, while the skin under the eye has faded to a sickly yellow. The eye itself was bloodshot when she first saw it this evening.

He told Sam that Paul accidentally hit him in the face with a door. "I was coming in, he was going out. I walked right into it," Jake had joked.

But when his eyes raised slowly to hers, they were dim, sorrowful. Lying eyes.

In the privacy of late evening, Sam slumbering in his bedroom, Bella had asked.

What _really_ happened?

Jake explained that Paul got into a barfight outside of Vegas. But his eyes still lied.

She could tell he wasn't going to give her the truth, not yet, so she bit her lip and said only, "I told you he was trouble."

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He balled his socks and tossed them into the hamper, saying, "I love you, Bella."

"I love _you_, Jake."

"You know, we've been together a long time, ten years." He crossed the room, feeling for her hand and pressing her knuckles against his heart.

Her own heart was pounding and she wasn't exactly sure why.

"There's no one for me but you. You and Sam. You know that, right?"

She nodded, but she said, "Lately-"

"I know. Lately things have gotten." He dragged his hand through his hair, looking off, his gaze focused on something far away. "Wrong."

"Vic thought you might be … having an affair." She couldn't look at his face. Because what she meant, really, was that she herself had reached that conclusion.

"Bella, no. No. Please don't think that."

"I don't know what to think, anymore."

"Not that, baby. Please."

And then he'd kissed her. Like he hadn't kissed her in forever. Full mouthed, taking big hungry gulps of her lips, her chin, her neck. Down to her shoulders and back up.

She couldn't find the air, couldn't feel anything but massive relief flooding her veins. She fisted his hair, overgrown, and he pulled her tank off, sliding his fingers into the cup of her bra and peeling it back, finding her nipple with his mouth.

He fought with his belt, shucked his pants, hoisted her up and back against the wall. He sighed audibly when they joined, she gasped against his neck. He was vigorous, almost desperately so, and it wasn't long before his movements against her slowed to one final thrust. He twisted and tossed her back, finishing her with his mouth, something he hadn't done in a long time. They ended up tangled on the bedspread, panting, and Bella asked him to quit working for Dimitri.

Jake stretched his big arm over his eyes, his voice heavy when he finally answered.

"I can't, Bella."

"You can't, or you won't"

He had looked at her then, and she had a hard time deciphering the emotions she could read in his face. Futility, regret, resignation. Sadness.

"Both."

"It's bad for our marriage, Jake. Sam and I need you back."

He had just shaken his head, staring at the ceiling.

"At least talk to Dimitri, tell him you can only do one car a quarter, like you agreed originally. Tell him your wife asked you to cut back. He'll understand."

Jake continued shaking his head, but he said, "I'll try, Bella. Okay?"

"That's all I ask."

He kissed her, then squeezed her hand and charged headlong into sleep.

Bella hadn't seen or felt the gash earlier, and now she can't seem to look away from it. Laying here, taking up more than half their queen bed, Jake has never looked so small. So mortal. His V shaped torso, tawny and reliable, his arms, as big around as her thigh–bigger even–his sloppy hair and flaccid penis, dirty nails and calloused palms. His breath, his scent, his vanishing smile and narrowing lips.

She's never been close to anyone, or loved anyone, like she loves him. She's scared.

Something is wrong.

And Jake doesn't want her to know what.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Hey Guys. So I fell asleep on the couch last night. This is yesterday's witfit. I totally did whatever I wanted though, only loosely relating to the prompts. And I'm going to be uploading today's witfit here soon. So. KABAM! Also (and this is important) my time-jumps are tightening. This scene is only a few days after Jake's black eye. _

_And Age of Sail is a field trip where kids (about 5th grade) spend the night on a boat and pretend they're sailors. I did it when I was 10. I was a deck hand. I wanted to be Galley-crew, maybe if I had been the food would've been better. _

_Unbeta'd and yadda yadda. _

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Faux pas

**Dialogue Flex**: "Are you going to the game tonight?" he asked.

Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.

* * *

"I need you to come over Monday night." Victoria drags her tongue around the side of her ice cream cone, catching the chocolate before it runs. Wind blows Bella's hair against her face and she tucks it back, turning to look at Victoria.

"Why?"

"Game night. We're interviewing a new bartender. Here, lick this." She hands Bella a cone with mint-chip ice cream starting to drip down the side. Bella takes it, twirling it against her tongue.

"Ugh, this is freezing."

"It's ice cream, Bella. They don't make it warm."

"Duh, Vic."

"I like to fly in the face of convention. I also get hot mochas in the dead of summer."

"You tell me this like I haven't known you for eleven years."

"Look, there's Sam." She lifts a hand, waving it over her head as Sam hops down the steps of the bus, drops his overnight bag to the ground and lets himself be wrapped up in Victoria's arms. Then in Bella's.

"I don't know why you waved, Aunt Vic. I saw you from two blocks away. Nice hair, by the way."

Victoria brushes her purple and gold hair back, pulling up the faux fur of her hood. "I don't embarrass you, do I?"

"You can't embarrass me," Sam says, his cheek to Bella's chest as she kisses the top of his head.

"Aw. See Bella – that's true love right there."

"You can only embarrass yourself. Ooooh BURN!"

"Good one, kiddo. But watch yourself, that kind of encouragement only means I'll try harder."

"Did you get me ice cream?" Sam untangles himself from his mom, bending to get his bag.

"Yeah. This is yours. I licked it. Sorry. It was dripping." Bella takes his bag and slings it over her shoulder.

"Ewww, gross. Mom-germs," Sam says, but he takes the cone anyway.

"How was Age of Sail?"

"Oh man. It was so cold. Can we get into the car and turn up the heat? This ice cream isn't helping but holy crow - it is so good. I had to eat beans and corn bread twice. Can we have pizza for dinner?"

Bella unlocks the Tacoma and pulls back the seat, holding Sam's ice cream as he climbs into the back.

"We're having spaghetti for dinner."

Victoria chucks the bottom of her cone into the trash, steps up onto the running board, harassing Bella herself before ducking into the truck. "Come on Bells. Get the kid a pizza. He just spent 24 hours on a clipper ship eating weevils for Pete's sake."

"Yeah, mom. _Weevils_. Still alive, even. I saw them wiggling in my corn bread."

"Extra protein, kid. That's what weevils are. Extra protein." Victoria snaps her seat belt closed.

"Gross, guys."

"We could get a Hawaiian pizza. The pineapple will help with my scurvy. I think my gums are sore. You wouldn't want my teeth to fall out, right mom?"

"Wouldn't want that."

"Pizza it is then! Hey Vic, did you remember to put that stuff on my iPod?

She pulls the Nano from her jacket pocket and hands it—earbuds trailing—over her shoulder to Sam who starts scrolling through the new additions. "Which is the one, again?"

"It's Chopin's Ballade No. 1, and get this. I know where I heard it the first time. I couldn't figure it out forever, but then I looked it up. It was the score for the Black Pas De Deux at the end of _The Lady of the Camellias. _My grandma took me to see that when I was little. Anyway. Thought that was funny."

Sam sticks his buds in his ears, pulling them out a few minutes later. "You expect me to play this, Aunt Vic? You're loco and a half."

"You better start practicing. It's that or November Rain. I want my wedding to be effing classy."

Sam snorts. "Will you be there?"

"I'm still debating it, smart-ass."

He laughs joyfully. "You shouldn't have said that Aunt Vic. Now I have blackmail material." Sam pretends to punch the keys to an invisible phone, holding it to his ear. "Yes. Hello, is this James Kelly? Thought you might be interested to know-"

"You little terrorist. You want to see how I deal with threats like that?" She pulls her phone out of her satchel, speed dialing James and putting it on speaker phone.

He answers with a short, "I'm working, Vee."

"I'll make it fast. You know I may or may not show up November 8th, right?"

"That's why we went with the cheap caterer, if I recall."

"Okay, later." She ends the call, turning to Sam in the backseat. "Ha!"

"Touché, Aunt Vic."

"Showed you."

"You sure did. I guess I'll have to go with Plan B."

She narrows her eyes at him. "What's Plan B?"

He puts his earbuds back in, staring out the window with a half-smile.

"Cheater."

She turns to Bella, bouncing in her seat a little. "What is your wicked son up to, Bells?"

"Wicked? _My_ son? Posh. I think the word you want is _cunning._"

"Crafty," Victoria nods.

"Genius."

This last, to some extent, is true. Sam has a gift for music, a gift for math, and a gift for making people laugh. He's still small though, and it still bothers him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Hey again! Happy Saturday. Or Sunday for some of you. I'd like to confess that to some extent I have no idea what I'm doing. I thought the vignettes would end right around this point in the timeline, and I still have, like 9 more prompts this month. So I'm just going to do whatever, and where ever we end is where the actual story will begin. And, for those that have asked... Sam is ten. Bella is 27, Jake is 28. And Edward is 30. I know how I started the vignettes made it seem like he was younger. He's not. _

_Unbeta'd and all that radness._

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Pipe

A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.

* * *

The doorbell chimes and Victoria stuffs the pipe in her underwear drawer, blowing smoke out the window and waving her hand to clear the room. Bella raises an eyebrow at her.

"Gotta be professional. This _is_ an interview, after all."

She puts in some Visine, pops a mint in her mouth, crunching it as she heads to answer the door. It's just James.

"Why did you ring, you dork?"

He gestures to his hands which hold up the cooler. "My hands were full, jerk-face."

"Well don't just stand there. Come in so I can have a beer. Jeez."

James sets the cooler in the kitchen, pulling the lid open and Victoria reaches in to grab a Newcastle. Bella goes for Stella, pulling out two and popping the tops. Lauren chooses Corona, as does Jess. They thumb their limes in and clink bottles. James pours his Guinness into a pint glass, leaving it on the counter to breathe. He likes it cool rather than cold.

Bella finds Jake on the balcony messing with his phone. She offers him the Stella and he shakes his head.

"What's up?"

"Paul's having problems with the carburetor on the Porsche. I might have to leave early."

"Stay for one game."

He doesn't look at her. "Maybe."

She goes back inside, sliding the door closed behind her, watching Jake through the glass. Worrying.

The cut on his back is almost healed. He said a guy in the fight had a blade and Bella had accepted that, but she hadn't believed it.

The next day he said he had talked to Dimitri and that Dimitri totally understood about his beautiful wife, his young family, and their needing him to work less. One car per quarter was fine. Just fine. The next day a sky blue Porsche had rolled into Forrester.

Jake didn't seem pleased to relay this news. He doesn't seem pleased about anything these days. His attitude has cooled back down since their passionate interlude, he's constantly distracted. Stressed. Which Bella thought would be alleviated with his workload.

She asked him about it. He said the barfight was really messing with his head.

_Four big guys, Bella. One with a knife. I've never had to fight before. I've never had to hurt anyone before._

Bella wondered. Maybe there had been a fight after all. There had been something, that's for sure.

"I got it," Bella calls, in response to a quick knock at the front door. She transfers Jake's beer, gripping the neck together with her own, flipping on the porch light and turning the handle.

"Hi. You must be Edward. Come in."

He just nods, stepping over the threshold. "Here, let me get your coat." She turns, setting the bottles on the bookshelf near the door, holding her hands out expectantly. He slides himself from his gray peacoat, laying it in her arms and saying thank you.

Bella's first impression is that Edward Cullen is not a bartender.

Edward's first impression is that Bella Black is beautiful.

Her hair is long and dark, pulled into a casual ponytail. Her eye's aren't exactly brown, as he thought they were. They're a deep rich hazel framed by lashes that never need mascara, though she's wearing it. She has a freckle under her right eye. An upside-down heart.

She has a graceful slope to her neck. He wants to touch it, see if it's as soft as it looks.

"You want a beer?"

"I thought I was here for an interview."

"You are. But keep in mind, we're pretty unconventional. We use the word _interview_ in the loosest possible sense."

"Who is we?"

"Me and Victoria. I'm Bella. I think you spoke with Vic already, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Cool. So here tonight is Vic, her fiancé James, all the gals who work at the bar, and my husband, Jake."

His eyebrows go up and quickly settle back down.

"And we're drinking. So just relax. Pressure's off."

He smiles with half his mouth. A tentative smile. "Okay."

She smiles back, handing him the Stella she got for Jake. "You'll want this. I think. If you don't like Stella there are other choices in the kitchen."

"No, this is fine."

Vic pokes her head around the corner. Her body follows, her hand extended. "Hey. Nice to see you again, Edward. Shall we get started?"

"Please."

Victoria invites him to follow her into the kitchen. Bella trails behind Edward, leaning back against a wall as Victoria sticks her fingers in her mouth. An ear piercing whistle shuts everyone up and Victoria points around the table, by way of introductions. "Everyone this is Edward. Edward this is everyone. Laurie and Jess are bartenders, Angie is our cook, James harasses us on a regular basis with things like Serv-Safe Training and E-Coli crap, and Jake plays with cars. You already met Bella," she throws a thumb at where Bella stands. "And some more people might show up later."

Bella gives her a questioning look.

"Creature said they might stop by."

Edward tries to look self-conscious, placing his palm against the back of his neck. "Excuse me, Creature?"

"Local band. They play Port Vic every other month or so."

He nods.

"Okay Edward. Take a seat and pick a color. Except red. I'm always red. Bella is always black. The other colors are up for grabs."

He sits, picking the white token and placing it on the board.

Lauren goes with pink, Angie is blue, Jake is orange, James is yellow, Jess says she's not playing and pulls out her phone.

"You're taking her job, by the way. You can see why I'm firing her."

"You aren't firing me, Vic. She isn't firing me, Edward. I'm moving away."

Edward smiles.

_Good._

Jess, having met him three minutes ago, already has body language he knows.

"What's the object of the game?"

Bella's the one who answers him. "So, this game is called Loaded Questions. On your turn you pick a card and read the question. Everyone answers privately on their pad. The answers are shuffled and read aloud to you, and you have to guess who said what. I'm telling you now, you'll probably lose, because we all know each other."

He laughs. "Okay. Can I go last, at least?"

"You may. Nice strategy by the way."

"Thanks."

"I'll go first." Vic says, rolling the die. She picks a card. "Purple question. Okay. _Write down the most beautiful word you can think of."_

Bella nibbles the end of her pencil before scratching out her answer, her hand cupped to block her writing from view. Everyone passes to her and she reads.

"Okay Vic. Your choices are: Victory, Fellatio, Bella, Cellar Door, Nocturne, and finally, Winning-Duh."

Victoria steeples her fingers, looking around the table with a smirk. "Okay. _Fellatio_ is James being hopeful. _Bella_ is Jake, obviously."

Jake grins.

"_Victory_ is Lauren kissing my ass. _Winning, duh_ is Bella because of her smart-ass kid. Like mother, like son. Angie is _cellar door_. Very outré, Angie. Not. So that leaves… what was the last one, Bella?"

"_Nocturne_."

Victoria points at Edward. "That's Edward."

Bella hands everyone back their papers. "You got 'em all, except you mixed up James and Laurie."

"_I_ was kissing your ass," James says.

"And I was the hopeful one," Lauren reclaims her paper, giving Edward bedroom eyes. He feigns embarrassment, looking away.

"Four, bitches. Suck it." Victoria moves her piece four spaces, then hands the die to James. "Your turn, kiss-ass."

Bella rolls her eyes, smiling, bringing the bottle to her mouth. Edward drinks as well. Their eyes meet. Bella lowers her beer and mouths at him, _unconventional. _He notices that she smiles with her whole face, her eyes glowing.

Bella Black is a beauty.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: HOLA MY LOVELIES! This is just a quick FYI that I start a new job on Weds. I may be suckish at keeping up on the prompts while I get acclimated. As always - thanks for reading and HUGS!_

_Unbeta'd and goofy._

* * *

**Word Prompt:** Glaze

**Plot Generator—Binding Blurb:** In 500 words or fewer, write a blurb or a short entry about** staying true to yourself.**

* * *

"Okay, Bella's turn."

Bella draws a card, checks to see where her token is on the board, and reads the question. _"What is the most terrible act of cruelty? _ Oh, that's a downer."

She shoves the card back into the deck as everyone writes their response. The papers get passed to Vic who taps them against the table, scrunching up her nose and reading aloud. "Your choices are: Number one – killing. Number two – forcing someone to listen to Kid Rock. Three – animal abuse. Four – calling a woman fat. Five – to take life. And finally – eating all the Mac n' Cheese and not buying more."

"That one is you, Vic."

"No comment," she says into the mouth of her beer, draining it and plunking it back down.

Bella looks around the table, tapping the pads of her fingers against her mouth. "_Kid Rock,_ that's got to be Laurie. I think Angie would say _animal abuse_, so I'm going her on that one. What were the rest of them?"

She leans forward, her ponytail swishing over one shoulder. Victoria repeats the remaining options.

"So I'm left with James and Jake and Edward. Well. I think Jake said it's cruel to call a woman fat. He's sensitive like that. And then killing … maybe, is James? Wait – no. Okay – yeah. _Killing_ is James and _taking life_ is Edward. How'd I do."

"Terrible. You got your husband wrong, first of all. You mixed him up with mine. _Mine_ is the sensitive one, apparently." She hands Jake back his paper. "He said _killing_. Yeah, killing might be slightly more heinous than insulting a woman's body."

Jake doesn't laugh, doesn't smile. Edward notices his eyes glaze, just slightly, before he turns them down to look at his phone. Edward returns his attention to Bella, seated next to her husband, her face turned towards him. Her brows have come together in the middle.

"You got everyone else correct. That's four." Vic moves Bella's piece for her, the look on her face suggesting she senses the worry emanating from her best friend.

These people are very attuned to each other, Edward observes.

"Be right back, anyone else need another beer?"

Edward puts his hand up, as does Jess, who then tucks it back down to cover a stifled yawn.

Bella pushes back from the table to help Victoria, saying, "It's your turn, Laurie. Go ahead and draw. We'll think while we're up."

Laurie flicks her blonde hair back and pulls a card. "Orange question. _If you wanted to be a real 'turn-off' on a first date, what would you do?"_

"I hope Bella writes _show up. _After that last question. Jeez."

"Thanks, Vic."

"Just keeping it real, bro."

Laughter rings out from the kitchen as Bella pushes Victoria into the wall, skimming inside the back of her pants for her undies. Gripping them she tells everyone to look away as she gives Vic a wedgie. Victoria thanks her, tells her it's just what she's always wanted, and walks awkwardly back to the table without digging her underwear out of her ass.

Everyone laughs, including Edward.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: ********Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.**

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to everyone for your well-wishes! I am very nervous! But excited! _

_Unbeta'd and roughly written._

* * *

**Word Prompt**: Deadline

**Dialogue Flex**: "Just one more," she said.

Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.

* * *

Edward leans back in his chair, waiting for everyone to finish responding to his question, _What two things do you need to survive? _ He knows what his answer would be. Music and a gun. One must always, _always_ have a gun. Whether or not you use it.

He's glad he doesn't have to answer this question.

Bella finishes first, turning her paper face down and smiling at him. He's realizing just how much he likes her smile, more and more, each time he sees it. It's pure, without artifice, without intent. A happy girl just being happy.

He wonders what his own smile looks like.

Bella could tell him. An unhappy man surprised to find that his smile is genuine.

Victoria lets out a sound of exasperation, pushing a thick mess of hair back off her forehead as she looks down at her paper. "Oh!" She starts writing, a grin splitting her face. "I'm making it easy for you, Edward."

He smirks. "Thank you, Vic."

"No problem, Nube."

Edward runs his hand over his right eye. "Nube, huh?"

"Just for tonight. Okay, who's reading?"

Lauren holds her pen up in the air. All the papers get pushed her way. Except Jake's. He's keying out a text on his phone. He looks up, his chair scraping against the tile as he slides it back from the table. "Sorry guys. I gotta go."

"Just one more question," Bella says, reaching out and putting a hand against his arm. Her wedding ring is a ruby, brilliant despite its small size, it sparkles at Edward from her finger.

"I've put it off as long as I can. And I think Paul is doing more damage than good, at this point."

"Okay. Hey guys, pause the game while I walk him out?" Bella asks, pulling their coats from the hook and handing Jake his.

"Yep. I need to visit the laboratory anyway. Gotta make some experiments in the porcelain beaker. Be right back."

"Gross," Jess says as Victoria prances down the hall.

Edward stands, finding his own coat, pulling it on and fingering his pack of cigarettes. He steps out the back slider, into the damp night air.

"I wish you didn't have to go," comes to his ears from right around the corner.

"Yeah, me too, Stuff. But I've got a deadline." Jake's voice. Weary.

"You just got the Porsche last week. You have a deadline already?"

"Dimitri wants this one by the end of the month. He's going to pay."

"I don't care that he's going to pay, Jake. I'm starting to really-"

"Really what, Bella? Because this is the way it is. He says he'll go easy after this one, I have to trust that he means it."

"We _have_ to trust? You can't just say no?"

Their voices fade as they walk away from the house. Edward sucks his cigarette, flicking ash over the rail, wondering at Dimitri's game.

He's glad the conversation is gone when Victoria slides the door open behind him, firing up her own cigarette.

"Hey," she says.

He nods.

"So, think you can work with these people?"

"It's a good group."

"It is that. I'll be asking them about you once you leave. Just so you know. I hire by committee. But, I think they like you. I think Lauren really likes you."

Edward smiles sheepishly. An engine turns over. Jake's Roadster.

"You don't talk too much. That can be a good quality in a bartender. Provided you work in a sappy joint where people need to spill their guts to anyone who will listen. Port Vic is like that sometimes. On the weekdays. The weekends jump, but the weekdays… we get a lot of working stiffs, you know? People just winding down before they face their families."

"That's fine."

Victoria sticks her cigarette in her lips, squinting one eye against the smoke as she zips the front of her sweater and tucks her hair into the hood.

"You have about a month to get acclimated before I leave for my honeymoon. It'll be you and Bella and Lauren. Jess'll be gone by then. November is fairly average, but that's a small crew for a slammin' bar. That means good tips, provided you can move your ass. It'll be crazy. But Bella will be there. She can handle anything."

_Can she? _

"She'll be in charge?"

"She's already in charge. I mean, I'm _in-charge_, in-charge. But she's your boss, too. Don't forget."

He blows smoke out into the night. "I won't."

"So tell me how you make a whiskey sour."

"Whiskey or bourbon, sugar syrup, lemon juice. Shaken. With a cherry."

She grounds her cigarette out in an ashtray, nodding. "Good. A gimlet?"

"Gin and lime."

Victoria makes a face and says, "Blech." She turns towards the door, the light shining on her fair skin, her smile. "Bella's back."

Victoria pulls the slider open, slipping back inside and closing it.

Edward field strips his cigarette and pockets the butt, watching as Bella pulls a beer from the cooler. Victoria joins her and they share some quiet words. Bella shakes her head, a crease between her brows.

He knows that the light shining inside will reflect the room back at them, so he leans against the railing and watches them both openly.

It's like moon and sun in the same sky. Victoria vivid and bright. Bella, dark, with enigmatic appeal. He saw what she wrote as her answer to his question. The two things necessary for her survival are her husband and her son. Jake and Sam.

He's betting Jake's answer would have been similar.


End file.
